The-Girl-Who-Survived
by AutumnsFey
Summary: The perfect little pureblood princess, that was who James Potter insisted to raise after his wifes death. To bad that Hari took more after her grandma - a true Black. Fem!Harry, Slytherin!Harry.


**She nodded.**

Always Smiling.

Nodding.

And smiling.

Nodding.

Smiling …

_Just keep on smiling, you can't kill them all._

_Just nod as if you agree, idiots will only see what they want to see._

Those words build the two main principles of Harriet's life, and she had perfected them into an art form so naturally it was a rarity. Some would look at her, at her demure mimic and submissive gestures, and turn away with a bored air, calling them simple, to-be-expected manners; others would describe her as a spoiled useless girl lacking any kind of backbone or personality. A lukewarm doll.

Narrow-minded fools.

Hari preferred the term 'survival tactics' where her behaviour was concerned, because that's exactly what they were - necessary skills she had attained early on to survive in a world where being a noble woman equalled to being a sellable broodmare. It was a reality where inequality was the norm and any exhibited behaviour outside of those expectations was to be corrected – something, she had successfully and desperately avoided to this day. Correction was not a situation she wanted to find herself caught up in.

And her gamble … her game of play-pretend was beginning to bear fruit.

She was sixteen now, and, as of today, it would only be one more long-suffering year until she finally came of age in the Wizarding world and could shed the mask of the demure submissive little girl prepared to stay at home like it was expected from a sweet darling pureblood witch, satisfied to drift through her life with no purpose, bearing one snobbish child to fulfil her contractual obligations, married to an arrogant wizard who sated his carnal desires wherever whenever he wished – which most likely didn't mean their shared bed - and no other task given or allowed to carry out other than to keep looking pretty …

Please. As if.

There was a fucking reason Hari was the first Potter to be sorted into Slytherin, and despite her dearest great-cousin Walburga's insistence that it clearly was her very prominent Black Blood which was responsible for this cleansing and promising miracle – Hari knew better.

The reason she was sorted into Slytherin was the fucked up fact that she was the first female Potter born into the family in nearly a millennium. This, despite what one may think, actually wasn't enviable at all.

Growing up with only her dad and her godfather's after her mum had died defending her and killing the self-styled Dark Lord Voldemort, Hari had been spoon-fed male-empowered bullshit by overprotective apprehensive fools who saw her as a helpless little girl in need of a strong big man to keep her sheltered and away from any kind of danger, complete and utter nonsense designated to not only make her into a naïve dependent pureblood princess, but also was frankly so ridiculous, and delivered in such an disturbing intensity and obliviousness, which would have been suffocating for anyone, that their attempts achieved the exact opposite.

Everything she was told to be, she despised.

Everyone who told her so, she looked at as little more than a useless fool.

Harriet wanted her own damn life.

She wanted to make mistake. She wanted to be reckless. She wanted to make her own decisions.

… to be free.

Independent.

Not satisfied, but happy.

And she knew how to get what she wanted.

Admittedly, her plan had needed a bit of time to get to a point where she could actually enact it, but now it was merely a waiting game. For the last three years she had been biding her time, and would continue to do so – until, on her seventeenth birthday, she would be able to take the unclaimed dormant title of Lady Ravenclaw, an entitlement courtesy of her late mother's hidden bloodline – and immediately disinherit everyone else who could have a claim to control her. She would be free.

A delicious finale to her little masquerade.

Hari smiled wickedly, delicately hiding the mocking curve of her blood-red lips behind her champagne flute and faking a giggle at something utterly idiotic Lord Yaxley had just said.

It was a routine, and she was better than good at it.

She was brilliant.

So …

Smile.

Nod.

Smile.

Don't fucking stop.

Nod and smile.

Like a simpleton.

Just nod and smile.

Not that anyone expected better from her. It was _exactly _what was expected of her.

Simper like a simpleton.

She excused herself and left the ballroom, entered the bathroom while sealing the door behind her and stopped before the golden sink – gripping the rim, her knuckles deathly white while she carefully kept her manicured pink finger nails from chipping or breaking.

Fuck.

Fuck them all.

One more year, and they could kiss her ass.

Looking up at the mirror, she barely swallowed down the snarl. Hari inspected the designed girl starring back at her, as fake as she could get, and let the glamour she had on her true form since she was thirteen drop.

What a difference it made.

Her creamy skin turned snowy white, while her rose-coloured chubby cheeks sunk in, displaying her prominent cheek bones and enhancing the fragile delicacy of her aristocratic features. Emerald-green eyes popped out, surrounded by bruised flesh born from sleepless nights spent secretly studying and laying out elaborate contingency plans with her few allies. Her thin dark-pink lips, the pointed chin, cute button-up nose, finely arched black eyebrows and long black eye lashes remained the same as ever. Her face didn't change much, not in its basic structure, but the details gave her a different aura, more serious and grown-up.

The green gown flowing down her slim body turned loose, her body turning dangerously thin and looking a lot smaller, what with her naturally diminutive height. It made her children-bearing hips, long limbs and moderate bosom stand out even more.

But what the glamour was created for, what it hide the most, were the fine silvery lines on her left wrist, criss-crossing again and again.

Scars.

She bore no pride in them – or shame. At the time, it was her only way to cope, the only way she could keep swimming, and while unhealthy, she would never regret it. She refused to deny something that defined her in its own way. Without her beloved god-brother seeing the proof of her despair, without his determination and clear words, she wouldn't have survived to see her fourteenth birthday – she would never have seen a silver lining.

Reaching up with bony fingers, she readjusted the large white lilies spelled within her long red braid.

… acceptable.

This was the real Harriet Potter, and until she could shed her mouse costume and spread her wings to devour the very prey that tried to domesticate someone they couldn't possibly dream to actually tame, it would be acceptable to continue the charade.

Flashing a sharp smile at her reflection, she reapplied her pureblood princess glamour.

Time to simper some more.

Nod.

Smile.

Nod.

Smile.

And all the while, she would merrily entertain their most gruesome murder.

_~ The End. Want more of Harriet Potter and how she will shape her world? ~_


End file.
